


Reasonable Suspicion

by Argyle



Category: Hot Fuzz (2007)
Genre: Bad movies, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-12
Updated: 2008-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:33:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't think we can entirely rule out the possibility of vampires."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reasonable Suspicion

"And yet," Danny said as he finished unbuttoning Angel's shirt, and then proceeded to yank the hem from Angel's trousers. He leaned down to kiss the flesh just above Angel's navel, his breath hot and even on Angel's stomach. "And yet..."

"Mm?"

"I don't think we can entirely rule out the possibility of vampires."

"Vampires?" Angel managed. It was all he could do to not strain against his cuffs – wouldn't want to scratch the headboard, Cromwell-era carvings and all – but luckily the pressure of Danny's hands on his thighs proved a proper impediment.

A quick peck back up on Angel's clavicle, and then, "Yeah."

"And how d'you figure that?"

"Well, there was blood found about the heiress' boudoir."

"Go on."

"Gallons of it, in fact," said Danny. Slowly, he ran his fingertips over the bulge in Angel's trousers. "Gallons and gallons. Like, I dunno, all that strawberry parfait left over from when DS Wainwright collared the wrong George Michael. Hey. That all right?"

Angel made an odd, maddening sound in the back of his throat. Well, only odd because he'd once heard a caged polar bear produce the same notes on a sunny day at the London Zoo, and only maddening because upon hearing it, Danny lumbered back up and nibbled at Angel's throat, hands lifting from Angel's crotch and slipping to the mattress for better leverage.

"Danny."

"Oh."

"So I take it _this_ perpetrator wasn't... Ah—" Angel swallowed as Danny found his buckle, then his zip, "—Um. The perpetrator—" down went his trousers, "—Wasn't aiming for realism."

"Dunno about that."

"Oh?"

"Seems a classic revenge: she'd had garlic for dinner the night before."

"Lasagna night at Casa de Montague?"

"The very same. Must've known 'twere evil forces lurking about."

"And not... Perhaps. Um. Nigella Lawson."

This earned Angel a deliberate tongue-swipe across his belly, but then Danny was working his way round the elastic band of Angel's pants, fingers tracing a path to the small of his back before sweeping forward again to dip fully inside.

"Oh." Angel bit back a groan. The cuffs cut into his wrists, and his biceps stung as he arched into Danny's grasp. "Jesus, Danny. D'you think..."

"What, that it were werewolves?" Danny chirped.

"Little too much teeth..."

"One for the 'maybe' pile, then."

" _Please_."

Danny was laughing. Angel was laughing too, but it was a coarse, juddering thing which shook through his frame. There went the headboard.

Let's face it: they were both police officers of the world.

They foiled a major underground criminal conspiracy and restored the balance of life for hundreds – nay, _thousands_ – of innocent citizens. They unloaded countless cartridges, and then reloaded to again unload countless more. They escaped death.

But they'd not quite got the hang of this, well, this _thing_ they got themselves into sometime after the whole "underground criminal conspiracy" piece had gone the way of Betamax. At least one of them was all angles, the other too soft, and they found themselves circling round and round until both were too desperate to do anything but take that definitive step which – if taken at word – might be mistaken for decent a sort of rhythm.

And yet they were getting better.

Right then, Danny was drawing Angel out, the calloused fingertips of one hand grazing the underside of Angel's cock as the other divested him of his pants. It only took a couple of strokes, a couple of neat swipes of Danny's tongue, before Angel shuddered and came. Danny, having mustered the coordination to fist himself, wasn't far behind.

Oh fuck, thought Angel. And then, like a boot heel to a brass knob, "Oh fuck."

"Huh," Danny agreed. Then he flicked the "play" button on the remote, and the thrumming, throbbing, freight train tremolo of _Horror in Rue Romantique_ swept through the room.

Angel had to hand it to him – "hand" here being the operative word, as he had only recently regained use of his own – Danny was something of a genius for plotting. Really, dedicated though he was, and even keeping in mind his half-term elective in film studies at university, Angel couldn’t have guessed the ending. It was all so haphazard, so cheap. The camera was visible in more frames than not, and the lead actress had a way of scrunching her nose when she screamed that was nigh on unbearable.

It was vampires.

And so the illimitable legion of the undead saw to the heiress soon enough; gallons of blood would be a gross understatement. But the cinematographer had a good eye: the splatter pattern on those god-awful puce drapes was absolutely true to life.

"Not bad, eh?" Danny asked as the credits began to roll. He was curled up against Angel's side, which Angel hadn't actually noticed happening, but which was also rather... Nice.

Angel sniffed. "You've seen it before."

"I own it," Danny said, pointedly, and worked a hand over Angel's chest. On the way back, he palmed the remote, then flicked off the screen. "I've seen everything."

"Best out of three?"


End file.
